


Consummation

by 9_of_Clubs, drinkbloodlikewine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A lot of Hannibal on his knees, Bossy Will, Couch Sex, Intertwining, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Teasing, shifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:52:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But Will is always a significant body, even not connected at all, he can feel him, the scoring of his being into Hannibal's skin. So even these touches, fleeting as they might be, resonate like thunder, rattle his body with their presence, create upheaval and leave lust trailing in their wake. Will touches him to feel the onslaught of the storm, barely begun and yet raging already, drags his fingers with the cool ownership of an explorer and claims the inches of Hannibal's body that are already his. </p><p>--  </p><p>Will does not listen very well - for the pair of them, punishment tangles with reward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consummation

Will pretends to listen.

He hears the words of Hannibal’s narration as the opera plays, feels the way they curl accented and warm against him, but their meaning is lost to distraction as he settles with his head in Hannibal’s lap and traces the checkered lines of his trousers. Sprawled across the couch in contrast to Hannibal sitting stiffly upright still, warmed by wine and the feel of Hannibal’s hand in his hair, tugging softly at the curls to straighten them and let them bounce back into place.

“Are you listening, Will?” Voice breaks through the sensations.

A blink, eyes turning upward, as color touches Will’s cheeks. “Of course,” he responds agilely. “That guy just killed what’s-her-name.”

A note of disapproval in response, a scarcely restrained smile. “I suppose it was too much to hope you would find interest.” A tut of the tongue. “Perhaps if this were an opera in which dogs were involved, it may better hold your attention.”

“Can we listen to that one instead?”

“Is this not garish enough for your tastes already? It is one usually reserved for children, I will have you know.”

Will’s brows lift, lips pressing together in a look of surprise, ignoring the latter half of the commentary. 

“Did you, wearing these pants, just imply that it’s my taste that leans towards the garish?” A huff of incredulousness in his voice. Hannibal ignores it.

"These are fine pants, Will. At least it does not appear that I have worn the same pair three days in a row."

"It appears that way because I have, in fact, done just that." Will turns a kiss against the brightly striped plaid beneath him, allows the music to reach him just long enough to ask, "Didn't she die already?"

The question goes unanswered for a moment, a tut of tongue from Hannibal’s lips. "Then I suppose I should be grateful it is not my head in your lap. Will I have to start monitoring your washing habits as well?"

His voice tastes of huffed annoyance, but his fingers thread through Will's hair fondly and he continues. "She, as it happens, is not dead already. She was merely poisoned by her cousin, as I believe, I explained." He raises a brow and shifts, curving slightly over Will. "If you're too distracted by the state of my pants to properly listen, we can stop." His eyes flash just a little. "Or I could remove them."

"You mean that wasn't the motivation for joining me in the shower this morning?" Will rolls onto his back and allows a pleased little noise as Hannibal's fingers slide deeper through his hair. "We can't stop now, though - then I'll never find out how long someone can keep singing while poisoned. I'm not at fault for your relentless attempts to distract me," replies Will, mild shock that he would ever be accused of such a thing even as he tugs Hannibal's hand free of his hair to press his mouth against his fingertips instead.

He allows his fingers to be pulled, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as Will's lips brush against them, the softness of his mouth, the sudden slide of teasing tongue, the stir of a strumming in his brain that has nothing to do with the opera at all.

"I won't be joining you further if I have to be responsible for the state of your clothing,” he threatens lowly, an undercurrent of real menace purring into the words. His other hand finds the curve of Will's side, slides down the rumpled fabric of his shirt.

"But I think you're correct,” Hannibal breathes, smile darkening, and his fingers pull away from Will's lips, making as though to shift. "I'm terribly sorry for being such a menace. Shall I just leave you to report back on such important details? I think that might be for the best, to allow you your listening uninterrupted." He pushes himself just a hair, shifts Will an inch off of his body and onto the couch. Makes to move but is stopped, Will sprawling wide in a stretch across Hannibal's lap, arms dangling almost unintentionally, into a surely accidental position that bars his standing. The other rolls back onto his side and presses his mouth warm against Hannibal's stomach.

"If this isn't stimulating enough for you, you could just say so," Will responds mildly, even as his fingers start to work their way down the buttons of Hannibal's shirt, prying each one free unhurried. "I'm sure you've got many more things to do that are far more interesting than any of this. Washing my laundry, perhaps, although," Will pauses, to press a lingering kiss to Hannibal's stomach, bare now as he pushes his shirt back off his shoulders. "I am curious to see how many days these pants could last."

The temptation to send Will sprawling to the floor, just to see the amusement glitter through his eyes, is for a heartbeat, overwhelming, the growling reflexive reaction to being thwarted. But the lines of the other's body distract him, the welcoming weight of his form, a slight stuttered intake of breath as the shadows play across the hollows of his face, set the mischief in his eyes glittering, touches them with flame.

"Assuredly,” Hannibal murmurs, letting his muscles relax, and settling back, opening himself up to the crawling fingers. "Nothing is more stimulating to me than playing housemaid to your whims." There's a tantalizing whisper of images in the words, a hint of dancing submission juxtaposed with the way his hand shoots out to curl roughly into fabric and thigh.

"But if you wear these pants one more day, I will cut them off you and shred every pair like them my fingers find." His fingers dig slowly and then stroke down. "And I will enjoy that very much. Do you think you would stand still enough to avoid the blade finding your skin?"

Will breathes a thoughtful noise at this, as impassive as though Hannibal had asked his thoughts on dinner. Unmoved despite the quick snarl of pleasure in his stomach that brings him to work his fingers lower still, toying with the fastenings of Hannibal's pants rather than undoing them.

"Do you think you could catch me long enough to try?" He shrugs, bright amusement in his gaze as it turns up towards Hannibal to watch the darkness in his eyes. A grin appears, defiantly unafraid as he shifts himself languidly, unfurling unhurried beneath the harsh press of Hannibal's fingers against him. The promise of a threat blooms dark in Will, thrilled at the restraint of the predator warm beneath his mouth and his fingers, as he works his way up his chest. Pulling himself up to sit, to drag his legs across Hannibal's own and straddle him, to press the reviled pants in a long curve of his body against this lion roiling beneath him. Playing at being prey, his head tilting just enough to suggest a baring of neck, illuminated golden bright in the fire.

"Oh yes." Hannibal's fingers loosen their hold just slightly, snake up the inseam of Will's thigh, stroking idly there, as though there is nothing to these touches but the scratch of the rough fabric beneath them, as though he cannot sense the warmth of Will's skin filtering through, scented with the first surges of arousal. Before him, the other preens, all cleverly calculated teasing and dramatics tonight. Perhaps the opera had been too encouraging, Hannibal considers, and he stows the thought away for later. Pleasure curls through him at the blurring of lines here, it is he who is bared, shirt pushed back just enough to slightly impede his motion, his skin naked and uncovered, but it is Will that plays prey atop of him, clothed in a costume of vulnerability. Unclear yet, where the evening will lead.

He reaches out with his other hand, curves it around Will's wrist with a bruising grip and pulls him closer, Will's laughter brushing his cheek now.

"It would be a small thing," Hannibal murmurs, raising the clutched hand and pressing a kiss to it. “To pin your hands together and slice."

A shiver, unrestrained, at that through the veins of Will's body, snaring deep the coil in his stomach and snapping it tight, driving the gentle threat - it is, that, even still - against images of previous victims in his mind. Will tells himself he allows the thoughts but in truth he can't stop them, a reminder of Hannibal's capabilities that bring his pulse to spike, flush darkening across his cheeks.

He clucks his tongue once, dismissing the thoughts and the words just as readily, setting them aside.

"Brave words for a housemaid," Will purrs across Hannibal's ear.

"So difficult to find good help, I can imagine." A hum of a response, Hannibal inhaling the onslaught of emotions that whirl off Will, arousal, excitement, fear, a heady blend that threatens his own intoxication, should he drink too much, and, oh, he intends to. In his ears, the sound of thrumming blood echos, drenches the opera, springs color into Will's skin, paints it scarlet without the unpleasant necessity of knives. 

"Do I displease you then?" He continues, his eyes widening in false horror, shrouding themselves with supplication, they curve away from Will's gaze and bow down. "I shall have to make all the necessary amends, in that case." The words curl a smile in the corner of Will’s lips.

He watches closer now, pupils wide enough to all but close out the corona of blue around them. Raw power in the hands that Will feels grazing restrained against his clothing, in the shift of muscles beneath the now-rumpled shirt hanging loose from Hannibal's shoulder. Entirely controlled and entirely his and entirely capable of turning on him, murderous and fierce, in an instant. Will feels his distraction, at the display of offered skin and curved spine, burn away like a match flaring sudden and bright, curling smoke in his words.

"Perhaps you simply require more stringent instruction than I had previously expected of you."

Desire comes palpably now, as though it might be reached out and grasped, it creeps around their wrists, around and ankles, like fingers, conducted by Will for the moment, shackling Hannibal. The latter doesn’t fight, surrenders the pot to Will, shifts his shoulders in liquid movements and bends himself further over, eases his grip to a shadow of the previous hold.

"Do I?" He tips his head down, tilts his cheek to the light, the underside of his chin exposed, but his gaze, he leaves where it is. The sensation of undressing whirls thickly around him, and pushes purposefully against the material of his shirt, highlights the way it traps him. "A re-evaluation might be in order then, so I may better serve your needs." The words are brushed with a kind of innocent curiosity, and Will’s brows raise a little.

"Then we'll begin with the most pressing need," He intones, mouth brushing against Hannibal's but not yet closing on it, not yet providing him the kiss he's yet to earn. Will lowers his fingers, tracing the carved line of Hannibal's jaw, continuing down the curve of his neck. A movement of muscle there, a hard swallow beneath fingertips.

The music swells, a crescendo building fast of fierce torment and fiercer passions, and as it peaks Will's fingers slide firm around Hannibal's throat. He doesn't push, doesn't squeeze, but merely lets them be felt there, fingertips against his carotid to, the sensation of quickening pulse, an instant in which Hannibal's absolute control isn't so absolute. Will grins, now, almost coy.

"Let's start with the laundry, then, and these pants that you abhor." Hannibal's selection of words, his cadence echoing with familiar dissonance from Will's voice, increasingly common as their time is spent together more often than not, a merging of two parts of a whole.

Will steals Hannibal’s words and Hannibal claims Will's offered air and breathes it, breathes in the fluttering touches that brush along his skin, almost nonexistent, around his lips and down his cheek, outlining the edges of his face.

But Will is always a significant body, even not connected at all, he can feel him, the scoring of his being into Hannibal's skin. So even these touches, fleeting as they might be, resonate like thunder, rattle his body with their presence, create upheaval and leave lust trailing in their wake. Will touches him to feel the onslaught of the storm, barely begun and yet raging already, drags his fingers with the cool ownership of an explorer and claims the inches of Hannibal's body that are already his. The fingers at his throat like a brand of casual possession. He does not need to be gripped to be held, nor bruised, or broken, simple touch enough to claim him. His heart beats to a frenzy, he could reclaim it, could force it slow, but he lets it run away, surrender of sorts.

"I suppose that would mean the necessary removal of the article." He shifts, lets his eyes graze up for an instant and all fall again, his own inflections and rhythms speeding his breath. "But it would seem I am held."

Will laughs. A breath, a sigh almost, but it's sudden and bright like sun breaking through the storm that builds thunderous between them and he doesn't mean to let it out but there it is, luminous, as he realizes their position and slides free of it. Loose, now, as he turns to drop back onto the couch and free Hannibal from beneath him. He props himself up on his elbows to watch, eyes bright beneath dark curls of hair and attentive with an acute interest that still remains no matter how many times they find themselves together in this way.

"Perhaps I should have taken a knife to it instead," Will muses, attention turned towards Hannibal's hands as they work down the remaining buttons of his shirt. They slide the rest of the buttons undone without righting the shirt where it falls around shoulders, the way it clings to him pleasingly obscene as Will watches, leaves Hannibal to the tasks and luxuriates in simple gazing. Under the bright stare, the shirt falls away, pools behind him in a heap.

Hannibal indulges himself for a moment, unable to resist, and leans in, presses warm lips to Will's pulse and bites briefly, tongue flitting out to taste the skin, relishing in the way it bends beneath his teeth, but doesn't break yet.

"I would have enjoyed that."

He breathes the words into the skin, kissing again, before shifting himself off the couch, onto the floor, edging into the space between Will's sprawled knees, fingers inching up the slopes they make, and stopping at the juncture of leg and hip.

"It was rumored I might be in need of comprehensive commands." He bends again, back stretching, muscles rippling beneath smooth skin, lips skirting across the inside of a thigh. "Have you some to give, then? To fail at such a simple task would be unbearable."

"Perfectionist," Will chides him, curving up against Hannibal's hands and mouth to seek more contact and faintly amused when it's held at the same pressure, and Hannibal moves away as effortlessly as Will moves toward him.

Controlled movements, controlled questions, controlling Will by letting him feel as though he's in control. Still as much a pleasure to pretend, to let his imagination override the demands of Hannibal's words, especially with Hannibal bowed so exquisitely before him. Will draws his lower lip between his teeth and lifts his hips enough for Hannibal to slide his pants free.

"Off," the simple direction, turning a harder edge beneath the gentle cant of his voice. Will hums a pleased note as Hannibal's fingernails draw against his hips, his thighs, as the pants are slid lower, and he reaches out to twist his fingers through Hannibal's hair, mussing it to his pleasure, letting it fall lank into his eyes and then pushing it back again.

Changing Hannibal in little ways, as it suits his interest, watching as his order pulls the other forward, like a rope tightened around his neck, lashed across his shoulders. 

Hannibal permits Will to string him, to use him as he pleases, the notion an aphrodisiac of its own sort, as he ties the leash around himself and presents it for the other to grip.

He doesn't stop his own motions though as Will touches more, takes, and holds, allows the stroking to continue, as distracting as it is, and moves to follow through; unzips the pants, pulls them down through the space Will creates and further, bares skin in slow inches, bending himself with each level, until he's on the ground, curled at Will's feet, the pants coming off his body completely.

"Off," Hannibal echoes, not yet rising, embracing the perspective and relishing in it.

A particular noise, curious, at this, as Will observes Hannibal beneath him. He wonders how many people have seen Hannibal bow low before them, possessed, claimed, and lived long enough not to realize the error in their judgment.

Will grins, unseen and brief, at the shiver of darkness that traces like fingernails up his spine.

A child who delighted just in much in breaking toys apart as he ever did playing with them, he can't resist the temptation before him, feels it pull down through his muscles, past the warmth gathering low in his stomach, all the way to his legs. He lifts one, and the other, to press his feet - bare, socks strewn somewhere forgotten in the house - against Hannibal's back. Chin lifting expectantly, imperious anticipation that Hannibal is going to throw his feet off and drag him to the floor and fuck him senseless, a brow raises when it doesn't happen and so he lets them linger there, pressing achingly slow down either side of Hannibal's spine.

Hannibal lets the pause stretch out around them, curled still on the floor, unmoving - just enough contact between them, and before long, the heartbeat shift comes, a new tang to the air, Will's gaze morphing from careful to curious. Goosebumps raise as the cool touch of Will's toes brush against his skin, trace against the dips of his bared back, first on one side and then the other. He doesn't protest, his legs tucked beneath him, staying as low as he can remain as his arms reach out to grip just under Will's knees.

The pressure intensifies, simply present at first, then pressing more and more, pushing bone and muscle as though to test their breaking points. Hannibal lifts his head for a moment, from where it hovers so low his hair almost touches the floor, lips parted at the perfectly torturous stretching. It's glorious, the sight that meets him, Will's face set in reckless abandon, chin raised as though in battle, the first sips of power pushing down his throat, into his being, and Hannibal has offered him the field to claim.

His head lowers again, mussed hair obscuring his vision. "And so you have me at your feet." He floats the words up, almost imperceptibly. "To control every limb and action will indeed surely be stringent enough to see your desired results."

Will preens at this, slipping languid back against the couch in a comfortable slump as though this were an ordinary occurrence for him. It could be, in some respects, for as often as he feels Hannibal bend to satisfy him, to indulge his particular flights of fancy, allowing him room to quietly lay claim to his home and his life and his inner workings, increasingly laid bare between them. Toes curl a little, arching upwards to push them down again, until something in the moment satisfies him enough that he sighs, pleased.

"Shirt."

With fluid motions, Hannibal rises, fingers digging into the other's skin to lift him and quick as a blink, too inhumanly fast, he's pushed himself upwards, invaded the space of Will's body and his breath. He can feel the throbbing outlines of heel and toe still embedded into his spine, the sensation shifting with him, layering itself over the pleasure and then melding with it, an intensifying of both extremes. Will settles back against the couch and smiles at Hannibal, some mysterious bit of truth echoing through his gaze.

The pleased realization that perhaps his control is not all false, that some unbearable honesty lingers in these roles that they only find with each other.

"I would ask how exactly you wish for the task to be completed,” Hannibal murmurs, unbuttoning the top three buttons of the worn fabric, fingertips flicking along the collarbone and down. "But I'm afraid I enjoy your attempts at a stronger hand too greatly to fall in line so easily."

His hands flit down to the hem of the shirt, chest pressing in as he pulls up, skin meeting skin as soon as the shirt has vanished. His hips straddling Will now, the shirt peeled off as Will's arms rise, his body shifting delicately, exactly like a King undressed by his servant, a God served by his slave.

He presses a kiss to Will’s neck and pulls back.

"You might become complacent, and I have a need for your control."

"You have a need for many things besides that," Will responds, rustling his fingers back through Hannibal's hair again. They curl slow, a twisting grip to tug firm without pulling painfully, and Will directs Hannibal's mouth back to his neck. "My complacency should be taken as a compliment," Will suggests. "It would mean that you've done enough to make me unconcerned."

A finger snares in the waistband of Hannibal's pants, pulling him closer. Will tilts his head until their mouths are near, the barest brush of lips as he speaks again, tugging the garish plaid pants for emphasis. "Off."

Hannibal hums into Will's skin, lips parting to taste it again, his teeth drawing along the collarbone, lost to the appreciation of the flesh. Allowing Will to dictate the direction of the evening frees him to embrace the sensation as it comes, wholly consuming. He finds the texture of the skin maddening as he nips into it, not marking but appreciating, chasing the scent of arousal one moment, possessiveness the next, following the complex trail of sweat and wine, the remains of his own cologne lingering against Will’s skin.

A pleased sound drifts from his lips as Will's fingers tighten in his hair, appreciating that they never withdrew. "You have no reason to be concerned."

The finger slipped into his pants commands so carelessly, seeps fresh arousal into his blood. Slowly, the pants come undone as he pushes himself forward into Will, pressing his weight onto the other's chest, half lying atop him now, feet finding the floor. It's a complicated arch which he has to form, hips lifted high into the air in order to lower the fabric from this position. He's panting by the time they're at his thighs, muscles burning, but he doesn't stand.

This, Will commits to memory, as though taking a photograph of Hannibal's mouth pressed against neck, back bent low in submission, pants shoved past his hips. Another breath of laughter, surprised delight at the intoxication pulsing quick through him.

Will considers tugging his hair until he's down on the floor, climbing on top of him and pressing their hips together until he finds release and leaves Hannibal aching for it.

Considers instead guiding Hannibal's mouth - ravenous, always, dire with hunger for Will and so much more - further down the length of his body until he's between his thighs, hair still in Will's fingers.

Considers walking away entirely, simply to see how long Hannibal would last before chasing him down in fierce claiming pursuit.

He reaches a decision, blue eyes opening wide to meet Hannibal's own, and relaxes his grip enough to let him finish removing his pants, lips unfurling as he watches.

"Finish," a breathless order now, his body arching up against Hannibal's in response to a touch that isn't yet there, anticipation.

The giddiness of Will's arousal floods Hannibal like a drug, it clouds his thoughts with its sweetness, makes his limbs shudder and the searing knot of his own desire clenches tighter, throbs with new persistence, inescapable in the dancing light of blue eyes. It pleases him to be pleasing, for his lips and his form to have found such shapes as to drive Will towards a kind of madness. The curling smirk, the arching body, the wanting, lusting, possessive beast that unfurls in front of Hannibal steals the breath from his lungs.

With soft lips, and expensive, finely tailored pants bunched at his thighs, Hannibal moves himself forward and kisses Will's neck again, brushes his lips down his chest and tucks his head against Will's shoulder, presses his face into the fabric of the couch and pushes his knees up on either side of Will. He contorts to bend his legs high enough to ease them one by one out of the pants and slide them off of his ankles at last. Hannibal manages grace, even with his face pressed into the cushion, hips rolling bare towards the ceiling and then back into Will as he drops the fabric from his fingers.

Still grasping his hair, Will drags his other hand appreciatively down the length of Hannibal's back, fingers curling against his skin to trace pale red lines beneath his nails. Along the curve of his spine down to lean hips and strong thighs and finally Will grasps hard behind Hannibal's knee to pull their hips roughly together. He leans in, holding Hannibal against him and tugging his hair to bend him deeper, to change him to suit Will's pleasure. His mouth traces soft, in contrast to the hard hands that hold him in place, down Hannibal's chest, drawing a breathless line from his collarbones down to a nipple, sucked just enough to feel it peak against his tongue.

Hannibal stays silent as Will's hands land on his body, re-purpose him, re-position him, a floating darkness falling around them. From the still aching lines of his spine, welcome stings of pain alight, as nails draw along his body, down the lines of his hips, leave raised red lines searing into his skin. They'll fade soon from the surface, disappear back to the unblemished whole, but for Hannibal nothing is ever lost. He breathes them in and tucks them away, imagines how they whisper now of his submission, starkly red even on the canvas of his already flushed skin. The nails shift momentarily to blades in his mind, and he wonders if he would allow, if Will asked, like this, would be guiless eyes peering up at him from the dimness, allow him to seep real blood from his skin - reopen the scar he touches with his lips, his own scar in so many ways.

"I should leave you here," Will murmurs, amused at the suggestion though both are aware that he wouldn't, couldn't leave Hannibal here so pliant and willing, subsumed with Will's intentions rather than the inverse in which most of their interactions take place. "Let you wait for me, listen to your opera. Anticipating. See how well you pay attention to it when you're so clearly distracted."

A cluck of tongue as Will feigns disapproval at Hannibal’s wanton behavior.

"I would wait,” he offers quietly, too lost in this mindset to stalk Will if he decided to tip him off his lap and stroll away, too enchanted by the unexplored possibilities it holds for them both. "But I would think of only you."

Will frees his hand from beneath Hannibal's knee to grasp his wrist instead, thumb stroking slow along the scar dug deep there as he brings Hannibal’s fingers to his mouth. Tasting his fingertips, briefly, tongue tracing a soft long along them before he presses them to Hannibal’s own mouth instead. Eyes wide, black with the expansion of pupils. "Suck."

The fingers rise to his lips and he accepts them, curls his tongue around their surfaces but tastes only the way they have been pressing into Will, seeped with his scent and his touch. "They taste of you,” he murmurs before he takes them deeper, finds their tastes mingling on his tongue, finds after a moment they form one indistinguishable whole.

Will swallows hard, lips parting in sympathy as he fixates on Hannibal's mouth around his own fingers. The languid draw of them pulling soft tension against his lips, the way his jaw shifts to allow them deeper, Will can't help but mirror the movements in increments as he observes, wide-eyed.

This would be enough, if he let it continue, the fierce heat in his stomach snapping tight. He could finish without anything more than seeing Hannibal debauched before him, feeling the tug of Hannibal's mouth against his skin without even needing contact, and despite the proud angle of his chin Will moans low. Hannibal's mouth wrapped around him, Hannibal's tongue pressing in long strokes against him, Hannibal's teeth scraping just soft the barest threat of danger before he takes Will deeper.

A sudden breath, as Will shivers and returns to himself, voice a hoarse whisper, low. "Inside yourself. You'll think of me now, too," he suggests, knowing Hannibal is unable to do anything but.

"As though there is some other possibility." The words ghost against Will's ear as he rises for a moment to whisper. "Do you think your imagination will feel the burn and clench of muscles as your lips do?"

Hannibal presses a soft kiss to the other's mouth and then carefully submits again, rounds his shoulders and tilts his neck to the side, bears a long expanse of neck, hair falling softly into his face. Once more, he lifts his fingers to his lips, sucking them teasingly slow to the knuckle, indulges in the way the motion captivates Will, before he straightens himself, the other's hand a weight on his hips, takes the fingers out long enough to ask in a soft voice.

"Would you like me to lay over your hips?" The question dances gracefully, as though he's still explaining the finer intricacies of the opera. "Perhaps bend before you on the floor?" His lips part at the way Will's hips shift beneath his, the low sounds he makes. "Or would you like to see yourself reflected in my eyes." His fingers find his lips again, drawing in, watching Will's part as well, hunger thick on them. "Just as we are."

Almost unable to hear Hannibal's words for the beautiful shapes they make on his lips, they register to Will only as power.

The power to see Hannibal bared wanton across his lap and watch openly as his fingers move inside himself and feel every moan reverberate through him and every muscle twitch outside of his control.

The power to distance himself from Hannibal and observe him eager to debase himself on the floor, primal and hungry, removed from any of the touches that spark across his skin.

But this, a greater power, to force him to meet Will's eyes so he can watch the madness that this stripped control drives into every inch of Hannibal, into the lank strands of hair fallen untidy into his face and into the way his lips unfurl with elegant sounds and into the way his eyes fall heavy-lidded in his desperation to be broken and rebuilt for whatever moves Will at any particular moment.

"Stay," Will breathes, touching soft kisses - affectionate, sweet - to Hannibal's lips, against the fingers that still press damp between them.

And so he does.

Their love isn't pure by any standards of convention, it burns and sears, destroys more than it creates, drips bloody trails in its wake, only appropriate for the beings that inhabit it. But in this heartbeat, Will pressed up against him, an adoring conqueror, aching sweetness sings within him, true surrender stripping through as the other fills his being, reaches out with his lips and his words and holds him. They do not need delicate, furtive touches, nor soft romancing amidst shy glances. No, there is nothing more pure in the world to him than Will's ravenous eyes, his grasping control over the gifts Hannibal offers, the way he always seeks to reach farther.

Without hesitation, Hannibal's fingers fall from his lips, drop down, his forehead pressing against Will's, sweaty and marred, far from its usual perfection, and he curves his arm around him. He has never touched himself quite like this, the first burning stretches of his fingertips pushing into his own body, an unyielding, unending stretch, and they roll down the hill together. 

No walls slide up, Hannibal's eyes as clear as they ever are, and he unlocks the door for Will, lets him feel the shifting of his hips as he moves his straddle wider, see the raw pain of friction light his eyes, back arching vertebra by vertebra as the fingers sink deeper, two of them.

They twist obscenely inside his body as he gathers momentum, as he loses all control of them at all, in their shared gaze. It becomes Will's desire that drives them, snakes control of his limbs and pushes them further, contorts his limbs, twists his hips, bucks them up and forward as he starts to thrash. It is he who holds the fingers to himself, but it is Will who pushes, who wordlessly pulls the strings as he pants, aching and arching, a cacophony of sensation inside of him, the raw pleasure of being used, though it is only himself who uses.

"I think of you now,” he tells Will, the cadence of his voice alien, wavering, undone by the tumult. "You do this."

"You do this to yourself," Will reminds him, overtly pleased with the play on words, with the way that it breaks the tension between them, the dire need in Hannibal's eyes a pleasant counterpoint to the amusement in Will's own. As though he hadn't spent all day thinking about feeling Hannibal's hunger against him, every long aria resisting the urge to sit astride him and distract him into some variation of this same consummation they know so well.

The amusement fades with a quaint, quiet little hum as Will strokes his fingers against Hannibal's cheek, up to push his hair back from his eyes and watch it fall again.

"Harder," he suggests, lightly now, coy in the faint grin that appears. "I want you to finish like this. I want to watch it happen."

Hannibal follows Will's fingers as they stroke, anchor him in the flood of jarring, exploding, sensations. There are so many now, playing up and down spectrums, oscillating and shifting, unstable, bursts of hot pleasure when his fingers find something inside of him, the ever present throb of deep pain, an ache that is neither pleasant nor harmful, but deep and unyielding deep inside of him, unceasing as long as he digs his fingers into himself, no stopping point in view.

Even the blood lust, the barely contained savagery which always lingers, calms and tames in its own way, becomes an instrument of something greater instead. He has to look away for a moment, unable to capture the mounting waves of his emotions as they tear him, a singularly strange sensation, as though he is flying apart at the seams.

"And you are a part of me,” he whispers bared truths. "I do this for you."

And he does in every which way, prostrates his form and allows Will to change him, control him in his own ways, alter his perceptions and behaviors, takes his willing hand and pulls him to places he'd never have gone. He tastes the grin on Will's lips, kissing him, terrible gentleness, and then pushes his head back against the other's fingers as his own flush deep inside of him, twisting and turning; little soothes their way but scant liquid and the beginnings of blood, but he pulls them out and thrusts them in viciously, and takes his whole body with them, rolling his hips in fluid, desperate motions - for pleasure, for pleasing.

His body grazes against Will as he moves shifts into him, as he imagines the other impaling him instead, holding him down with an easy hand and then holding him open, finds that he very much wants. He crooks his finger amidst the vicious desire, digs into Will with his hands as the pleasure hurtles before him, too far gone to stop.

The abandon with which Hannibal throws himself into his destruction hitches Will's breath, the ferocity with which he follows Will's instruction despite the evident pain catching tense in the corners of his eyes, betrayed by the eager noises that draw chills down Will's spine. Destruction of others, destruction of himself, elegant incarnations of a love of violence that supersedes nearly every other facet of existence besides consumption and besides Will, he knows, another faint smile catching his lips as he watches Hannibal work himself into a frenzy above him.

For him.

He runs his hands along Hannibal's face to cup it warmly and bring their mouths together. Lips and tongues pressing slow, languorous compared to the driving pressure of Hannibal's fingers inside himself. He consumes Will and Will consumes him, and as Will leans into kiss him, he tastes them shared on his tongue, leans into the soft easy press of lips, almost begging for the gentleness of it, moaning softly and the adoration.

It is for no one else that Hannibal would find himself like this, but for Will, he realizes with a stunning clench of his throat, all his muscles tightening with realizations, his fingers swallowed further, for Will, from Will, he craves this, this undoing, release in increments, out of his hands, but into them, nothing done without his permission but everything at Will's behest. Shared ownership of his body, wholly, and with every breath Will creeps further and further into his mind.

Will drops a hand from Hannibal’s cheek to curl his fingers against the soft blonde hair at the base of Hannibal's length and drag them up, up, up just so until Will finally breathes against his mouth.

"Now."

His body loses tension slowly, melts into another kiss, even as fingers drive him with sharp currents of pain, with relentless strokes, but it's not enough, not until Will is touching, not carefully, not with any intricate grace, but rough and grasping, his antithesis in every way, and yet there's nothing Hannibal craves more in this moment than for Will to leave his dirty fingerprints all over his body.

 _Now_ \- he agrees silently and everything shatters around them, a shrill screaming which might be in his mind and might come from the opera still playing, but glass breaks, and he comes apart under Will's fingers.

"As you please,” he breathes the words into Will's collar bone and falls.

A grin, bright and sudden and pressed against Hannibal’s cheek, followed by a kiss, and then another. An arm surrounds Hannibal to draw him nearer, mouth soft against the flush of his skin, little words of praise pressed against him.

How beautiful his abandon when he hurtles himself towards Will’s control, towards violence endemic between them both.

How beautiful his more pronounced discomfort, startlingly human, when Will murmurs to Hannibal how beautifully he performed, how satisfying his service, and Hannibal silences the kindnesses beneath a roughened kiss.

Drawing back, perhaps, from the real intimacy of the words, to communicate instead in a language that both understand more clearly. Control and connection, a more comfortable common ground, offered again now as Will extends his sticky hand towards Hannibal, it hovers between them, a brow raising curiously.

A heartbeat of silence threads between them. 

“Would you have me taste myself on your skin?” Hannibal’s words are low when they break it finally, voice still wrecked, a thrum of a laugh edging through. “Shall I consume myself for you?” 

He leans forward as Will’s eyes light up, a wanting breath from his parted mouth, and bridges the gap, presses his lips around the tip of the other’s forefinger. Just the whisper of a kiss, lips soft. His tongue extends downwards as he slips two more into his mouth, pressing against them and withdrawing, his own saltiness and Will’s mixing brightly. A new flavor to add to his collection, intoxicating.

“Would you not,” A breath and Hannibal tastes again, teeth scraping now, a hint of pain, enough to quiet the still unsettled murmurs that whisper through in his veins, awakened by Will’s soft words, the praise that brushed his skin and vanished, “prefer I consume you instead?”

A play at control, his lips sucking again, cleaning his own remains off Will, vanishing them as he might the blood of a victim. 

Will’s lips part in sympathy to Hannibal’s own, each time they unfurl to draw a tongue along his hand, to lap up his release curious and steady.

He draws a breath, sharp and sudden, and with his unattended hand catches Hannibal by the back of the neck and pulls him close. A lingering kiss, to taste Hannibal and himself and to breathe against his mouth, his heart speeding a little faster now.

A nod, wordless, eyes wide beneath an untidy mess of hair, happy to relinquish control after such a display, a willingness to submit that stole Will’s breath with the power it yielded to him.

“Please,” Will finally manages, catching his lip between his teeth in a grin.

“So polite.” 

Will’s hips writhe, eager, as Hannibal inches himself downward, falls for the second time this evening into the space between the other’s thighs, fingers clenching into skin as he lowers himself, a stifled groan filtering out when aching muscles shift. But welcome pain, it sings through him.

On his knees as he is, power again floats between them unclaimed, its glorious fingers brushing the bareness of their bodies. Hannibal bows his head and finds tender skin with his mouth, draws it from Will’s knee upwards, a hint of lip and the whisper of cheek, the only contact between them. Not nearly enough.

“Am I rewarding you with this?” Teeth push into Will’s inner thigh and he jumps, hips rolling up, the palpable weight of his pleasure seeping into Hannibal, heady and delicious. He sucks lightly against the mark, curls into the juncture between leg and hip and finds Will’s eyes. “Or do you take it for yourself?” 

Will makes a considering noise, squirming down further into the couch, a fierce scarlet blooming fast across his cheeks, down his neck to his chest. A flood of color, as he feels the dynamic shift so readily between them. Power held and power given, taken and yielded, no resistance found in any part of the transactions between them.

Too similar in kind to fight it, two halves of the same whole.

“A reward,” Will decides suddenly, with an imperious toss of his shaggy hair back from his face. “For my excellent training and leadership skills.”

His grin is bright, unhidden by compare to how he would around any other, trapping it behind a hand or turning it away. He loops a leg over Hannibal’s shoulder, heel digging gently into his back again, and pushes his hands through the man’s tousled hair to feel the strands fall sleek and loose beneath his fingers.

Hannibal arches back beneath his touch, unspeakably handsome on his knees before Will, a flush to his carved cheekbones and eyes hooded with a blatant desire to serve whatever pleasures Will decides need attention.

“Oh yes, for those.” There’s a darker flit of amusement to the tone as Hannibal speaks finally, a half warning of what might happen if Will pushes too far, of the defiance Hannibal could still muster if he pleased. But he had offered Will his choice on a platter, and accepts his answers, enjoys the veritable feast of sensation Will gives in return, the flush of blood, the sound of laughter. And now, taste and touch will come. “Such worthy traits in your possession.” The faint notes of a tease, smile curling.

A twist of a snort sounds from the other, but the unseemly sound only heats the desires in his own blood. A sudden urge to pull upwards and kiss the sound away flits through, but instead he leans forward and does as the silent command of Will’s fingers, his heel, order. He is guided by the pressure on his back, but acts of his own volition. A gift for Will, this evening.

Without breaking their eye contact, he gracefully shifts himself over, allows the hardened flesh of Will’s cock to play against him for a moment, his cheek brushing the silky warmth of it as it throbs against him, and then with languid motions, he pulls back to part his lips and tastes the tip. His tongue swirls curiously around as it enters him, always a new exploration, these acts.

For a breath, the vibrations of which he’s sure Will feels ghosting around him, he remains still, the heaviness of the other’s arousal, of the other’s desire, for this, for him, tangy and strong as they infiltrate his senses, the inaction deepening the impact. Then a blink, his lips curving, and he pushes forward, drops his neck but not his gaze and takes Will deeper.

A self-consciousness to this, as Will watches the elegant bend of Hannibal’s mouth surround him. No poetry pours from it now, no psychiatric postulations, but only a low hum that coils tight in Will’s stomach.

He moans, a soft sound entirely unintentional in its release, embarrassingly open with pleasure as his jaw slackens and his fingernails curl against Hannibal’s scalp.

Goosebumps draw down their skin in unison, as Hannibal’s cheeks hollow to suck, and Will nearly rises off the couch with the sensation of it. Entirely entranced, head resting back against the cushions and hair fallen unattended in his face, Will bites his lip again and lets his eyes close.

Too much to watch and to feel at the same time, painfully hard already from bending Hannibal beneath him and above him, to have made his lion so tame beneath his touch. An illusion, he knows, but a thrilling one, to feel the compliance of this predator that could readily revoke their closeness and rend him limb from limb as soon as he might fall pliant and yielding beneath it.

“Harder.” A plea now, rather than a demand, aching softly as it’s spoken.

Will’s words twist around Hannibal, consumed into the whirl of sensation that plays throughout him. His tongue curls around the ridges of Will’s skin, explores and maps the territory over and over again as Hannibal pulls him deeper into his body, takes him further with his mouth, a flick here, a twist there, widening his jaw and tilting his head, lips sucking and dragging. 

There was something still lacking, before, when it was his own fingers filling him, even at the fulfillment of Will’s wishes, the movement to his orders. It was still only his own hands on his own body, against Will - not enough, not like this. 

But now to finally take Will into him, it causes a distinct wholeness so superb it shudders through Hannibal’s body, the perfect choreography which moves them, his lips hollowing. A breath and Will slips deeper, hips pushing up instantly to press them further, and then again with the next breath. There’s a stutter to the music as Will pushes further, find his throat, but he refuses to be the sour note in the tune and lets his head tilt back, relaxes his throat and the rhythm sings again. Will’s hips stutter and snap, more wanting, more, ever more, and Hannibal instead chooses to freeze them in this moment, his own body consumed by the beauty of it, still so sensitive to the trills of pleasure that rear themselves in him. In the instant he allows himself what he so stringently denies and quiets his mind, becomes a beast of instinct and feeling. With anyone else it would be a danger, but with Will it frees him. The fingers in his hair pulling, yanking, garbled sounds from above him, an arched back, the curve of a perfect neck, he inhales it and presses them forward.

Slowly, Hannibal shifts around the other’s cock, tests the position, just a little bit back and forward again, teeth gliding over hot skin, lips pushing and kissing, his tongue trapped somewhere below. An achingly slow bob, long, purposeful, and then without warning, Hannibal shifts the angle, pushes himself over instead of back, rising on his knees, a hair of a choke, and they’ve settled, his lips sucking hard. 

A breathless sound, surprise snaring Will silent with the sensation. Consumed, now, the back of Hannibal’s throat working in slow swallows as Will’s hips move uncontrolled against the suck, the lick, the press of lips and pull of throat. Delighted, it seems, as a sound like laughter shudders through the sigh that finally rips itself free of Will, lungs burning.

Will breathes Hannibal’s name just to hear it said, to have it heard, to feel it curve with disbelief. One or both move a little deeper now, Hannibal above, and Will below, and find a rhythm. It is slow, patient as Hannibal’s unwavering pulse, but enough that Will’s breath shortens to little gasps, color darkening his cheeks beneath the scruff of his beard, and his fingers pull suddenly against Hannibal’s hair.

“Stop,” Will insists, a helpless gasp.

He’s met with implacably dark eyes and when Hannibal’s gaze falls on him so attentive, almost clinically curious from this position, it’s enough. Will feels his hips jerk outside of his control, a twitch just before his release uncurls from somewhere at the base of his spine and sends shivers through his body.

Against the spasms, Hannibal is a calm force, mouth still moving, working Will through his climax, tongue and teeth, enough to send him spiraling still higher as he falls, and then only stabilizing warmth as the other arches and twists before him.

For the second time this evening, the raw flavor of lust coats his tongue. He tastes the reality of it, of course, the not unpleasant saltiness, the biology of Will that he swallows, but beneath that lingers the consummation of the pleasure they share, what he has wrought on Will, what Will has wrenched from him, too soon for it to manifest as desire proper in his body, but enough to create a satiated comfort, a pleasure at pleasing. 

As the sounds of Will’s moans die down, his fingers going slack in Hannibal’s hair, breaths ragged and halting around them, Hannibal stays where he is, lips stilled around Will’s softening skin, swallowing down the rest of him in tiny motions which cause latent shudders in the other. Vibrations humming across his too sensitive flesh.

Slowly, Hannibal pulls away, a hand reaching up to twist his fingers into Will’s as his lips shift, brushing kisses to Will’s thigh, up to hips, around the bone, a little past, until he’s as high on his knees as he can go and Will’s eyes open again just enough to find Hannibal’s once more.

It is impossible to explain the connection that binds them, raw, like this, impossible for Hannibal to quite tell exactly where Will begins and he ends. He inhales and Will exhales, his heart beats and Will’s answers.

“Did you find that to be rewarding?” Hannibal murmurs, indulges in the connection, stretches through it into Will. “For your excellent skills and your poor behaviors.” A whisper of a laugh.

Will wraps his arm beneath Hannibal’s, up behind his shoulders to tug him near. He moves readily as Will lays back with a grin, spread long across the couch, a contented noise when Hannibal settles over him. A familiar weight, warm and heavy atop him, a few soft kisses stolen sleepily as Will lets his eyes drift closed.

“Mixed messages,” he chastens, amused. “Rewarding poor behavior.”

Will runs his fingers through Hannibal’s hair when Hannibal tucks himself into the crook of Will’s neck, both still flushed warm from the pleasant exertions.

“I’m afraid I’ve lost track entirely of what happened to the poisoned soprano, though,” admits Will. “We may have to listen to it again from the start, now that I’m free of your distractions.”

“Yes,” Hannibal hums back, eyes closing, arms curving around underneath Will’s body, the quiet strands of music still lingering in the air around them. “Certainly, I am at fault. But if you wished to listen twice, Will, you might have just said.” 

He feels, more than hears the laugh rumbling out of Will beneath him, takes the vibrations into his skin and holds them. The shared beating of their hearts, the unison of their breaths. Fingers wrap around his torso and he exhales. 

“We shall listen together,” he murmurs finally, as though it would be possible to do anything apart.


End file.
